


hand in unlovable hand

by merrymegtargaryen



Category: Barkskins (TV)
Genre: F/M, obligatory warning for delphine's back story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:28:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27031207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrymegtargaryen/pseuds/merrymegtargaryen
Summary: Two months after the attack on Wobik, Cooke and Delphine discuss how their paths might intersect.
Relationships: Delphine Langois/Elisha Cooke, Delphine/Elisha Cooke
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	hand in unlovable hand

**Author's Note:**

> Hiiii, this is my first (and hopefully not last) Barkskins piece; if you read this, know that I love you.

It has been two months since the attack on Wobik. Two months of repairing and rebuilding the life Delphine has come to treasure here in New France. 

They had lost most of their men in the attack, and some of their women and children, too. Houses and businesses had been destroyed, livestock slaughtered and taken. Even those who did not lose their lives lost their livelihoods. 

Mercifully, the inn had been spared, and Mathilde has allowed many of the settlers to stay there free of charge, even converting the dining room into a dormitory when there were no more rooms left. Most of the settlers have repaired their homes enough to return to them or moved in with friends or family, but every one of the inn’s rooms are booked. 

It keeps Delphine busy. When she isn’t making and serving food and drink, she’s turning down beds and emptying chamber pots, always on her feet, always finishing one chore only to have ten more waiting for her. 

She doesn’t mind it. She likes to feel busy. Useful. She feels at home here in Mathilde’s inn, more than she ever did with the nuns or that one night she spent in Pierre’s cabin. 

“Each day, we reveal ourselves anew,” she’d said on that chilly October day, warmed by a fire at her back and lavender and honey tea in her belly. 

She has only seen Mr. Cooke a handful of times since that fateful day. They had both emerged alive and unscathed--at least on the outside. On the inside, she thinks he must be scarred by that day. By his misdeeds, as he’d called them. 

_ We are alike, he and I, only I bear my scar on my skin, and he bears his on his soul. _

It is after suppertime--too late for a young lady to be calling on an unmarried man, but then, what does it matter out here? This is New France. It is time for new rules.

“Mathilde?” she asks, drying her hands on her apron as she turns from the basin where she’s washing dishes. 

“Yes?” The older woman doesn’t even look up from the ledger where she’s tallying up her her profits for the evening. 

“May I take a walk?”

Mathilde looks up at her at that, eyes wide. “A walk?”

“I like the snow,” Delphine defends. “And I want to be...alone with my thoughts.”

Mathilde does not look fooled, nor does she look particularly happy. Delphine understands, which is why she will not say her true destination aloud. 

After a moment, Mathilde sighs. “I suppose so. Renardette and I can manage for a time.” 

Delphine bows her head, taking off her apron and reaching for her cloak. Mathilde looks sad as she turns back to her ledger, but she does not say anything, so neither does Delphine.

The walk to Mr. Cooke’s is short, but cold all the same. Delphine is unused to winter like this, especially in early December. What will happen in January and February?

The Englishman opens his door with some surprise. “Delphine!”

“Good evening,” she says, trying to smile. “I know it is late, but I thought...I hoped...perhaps we could talk?”

He blinks at her. “Talk?”

“I…” She feels foolish for coming here without warning, without an invitation. Does he even want her here?

_ He sheltered me during the attack. When the Iroquois came through Wobik, he held me to his chest and aimed a pistol at the door.  _

“Of course,” he says suddenly, moving aside. “Forgive me, it is...most ungentlemanly, to keep you shivering at my doorstep.”

She steps inside gratefully, relieved at the warmth from inside. 

“Come, come, you must sit by the fire,” he tells her, leading her into the kitchen. He takes her cloak and hangs it on a peg before moving to pour her some tea. “I remember my first winter in New France,” he continues, stirring honey and lavender into her cup. “I thought I had experienced cold in England, but that was nothing compared to the cold here. And it will only get colder.”

“They warned us,” she says softly, accepting the cup of tea. “Thank you. They told us it would not be for the faint of heart.”

Mr. Cooke sits across from her, his kind eyes full of warmth. “But you are not faint of heart.”

She gives him a real smile this time. “I’m not.” She takes a sip of the tea, and though it’s hot, it’s welcome. She holds the cup in her hands for a moment before setting it down, turning to give him her full attention. “Some time ago, we spoke...of our paths intersecting.”

“Yes.” He looks almost nervous. 

“I would like that very much. But,” she says, before he can speak, “before we talk anymore of our paths intersecting...there is something I think you should know. About me.”

His eyes are more guarded now. “Very well.”

Delphine takes a deep breath. “You see, when I was thirteen...I caught the eye of a woodcutter. He was...not a kind man.” She clears her throat. “He tried to force himself on me. He was unsuccessful; I kicked and screamed until he gave up.”

Mr. Cooke is watching her carefully. “I am glad to hear it.”

She shakes her head. “He did not let me escape completely unharmed.” Unconsciously, her hand rests over the scar, hidden beneath layers of the beautiful clothes Mother Sabrine had let her keep. “He took his knife and he put his mark on me, just as he would any tree. So that any and every man who came after would know I belonged to him.” 

She cannot see Mr. Cooke through the tears forming in her eyes, but she does hear his soft, “I see.”

She wipes her eyes, determined to tell it all. “Later...I used his woodcutter’s axe to kill him. I do not regret it.”

“No,” Mr. Cooke says, still in that soft voice. “I should think not.”

She lets out a sound that is half-laugh, half-sob. “I came here as a  _ fille du roi,  _ because I thought I could have a new start in a New France. But when Pierre brought me to his cabin and bid me take off my dress...he was disgusted. He wouldn’t touch me. He felt...betrayed. He slept on the floor that night, and took me back to the nuns in the morning.” She gives Mr. Cooke a sad smile. “They did not think another man would want me, either, so Mathilde took me in.” She fiddles with her skirt, unable to meet his eyes. “So if our paths are going to intersect...it is better you know now, so that you can choose to take...another path, if that is your wish.”

Mr. Cooke surprises her by reaching over and taking her hand in his. “My dear Delphine,” he says, his voice soft and full of emotion, “You are...an incredible woman. I knew you were beautiful when I first laid eyes on you, and intelligent when we first spoke...but now I know you are stronger than any woman I have ever met. How could I wish to take another path, when this one will lead me to the greatest happiness I have ever known?”

Another sob slips free. “But the scar...it is so ugly, and it will always...remind you…”

He shakes his head. “It will remind me of your courage and your determination.” He looks down at their joined hands, hesitating. “Will it not...bother you, to know what I have done? My...misdeeds?”

Delphine bites her lip. “Do you remember what I said that day we sat by the fire together? When you said we were...criminally strange to one another?”

He looks at her, and there’s an affection in his eyes she’s never seen before. “You said each day we reveal ourselves anew.”

She nods. “I still believe that. These...misdeeds, as you call them...they are in the past. What matters to me is the man you reveal yourself to be today, and tomorrow, and the day after that.”

He reaches forward, taking her other hand in his. “Delphine...do I take this to mean that you would not be averse...to becoming my wife?”

She beams. “I would like that very much.”

He raises her hands to his lips, kissing her knuckles. “Then I believe we had better have a talk with Mother Sabrine.” 

“I won’t have a dowry,” she warns him. “I’m not a  _ fille du rois _ anymore.”

“Come now, what need have I of a dowry when I am rich enough for the both of us?” he asks, a weak attempt at a joke. It makes her smile all the same. 

“Truly, Delphine,” he adds in a more serious tone, “the only dowry I require is your hand. Nothing more.” 

_ Nothing more. _ All her life, people have wanted things from her. Her virtue. Her body. Her dowry from the king. But Mr. Cooke wants only her. 

Her, and nothing more. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on tumblr! url is jeynepoole. I would link you but links seem to be broken.


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